


Christmas Angels

by burkygirl



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Shopping, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Soup Kitchens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-18 18:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burkygirl/pseuds/burkygirl
Summary: While volunteering for the Seam Street Food Bank, Katniss meets a handsome baker on a quest to honour his father's memory by making Christmas better for as many people as possible. In the process, two lonely hearts discover the holiday is brighter when you have someone to share it with.





	1. December 16

**Author's Note:**

> My father didn’t grow up with very much. About 10 years ago, he decided he didn’t want my husband and me to pay the money to ship a gift halfway across Canada to his door. Instead, he wanted us to donate what would have spent on his gift to a children’s charity. He does the same for us. Thus began our annual tradition of choosing gifts for needy kids off the angel tree at our local mall. This story is inspired by our tradition. And by my Peeta, who has become so invested in the project that he motivates his students to purchase gifts as well. Over the last three years about 200 kids have benefited from their work.

The incessant beeping of the back alarm is making my skin crawl, but I still manage to get the cargo van aligned with the receiving doors at the back of the little bakery in Panem’s downtown. When they finally disappear from sight in my side mirror, I shift the van into neutral and set the parking brake. 

Normally, I’m busy packing hampers during my Saturday volunteer shift at the Seam Street Food Bank, but Mags, the manager, had been frantic this morning. Haymitch, her usual truck driver had called in sick, which really meant drunk. Without him, Mags had no one to pick up the Saturday donations. So, I’ve been spending my time, backing up to door after door as Panem’s local restaurants and grocery stores pass on perfectly good food that they’d just be tossing in the trash because it’s not quite as fresh as their customers demand. 

Had it not been for the food bank a few years ago, I’d have been digging through the dumpsters of every one of these establishments, trying to put enough food on the table to keep my little sister and I fed. My mother was a lost cause, too busy spending our meagre welfare cheque on booze to make sure we got something to eat. I guess I was just lucky Mags didn’t ask questions the first time I went into the old warehouse on Seam Street and signed up for a hamper. Or she’d seen it so many times that she knew reporting my situation to the authorities was likely to make my life worse instead of better. Either way, she and her food bank saved me and my sister. Every Saturday since I got a job and got out on my own, I’ve spent a little time packing hampers, trying to pay her back for what she did for me. 

The holidays are the busiest time of year at the food bank. Not because there are suddenly more poor people. It’s just that all of the sudden, the not-so-poor people decide they need to give more to charity to make up for the ridiculous amounts they’re spending on stuff they don’t need. Mags makes sure to stow away the canned goods and frozen foods for the lean months in February and March when everybody’s credit card bills have rolled in and they’re too pinched for cash to remember that human beings need to eat every day and not just at Christmas. 

I take a quick glance at the list on the clipboard Mags gave me. Mellark’s Bakery. Well, it looks like I’m in the right place. I guess the baker must have made too many cookies this week. Or some bread is about to go stale that can’t be sold to paying customers. Our clients won’t complain. Slightly stale bread toasts just fine. Throw on some peanut butter for protein and you’ve got a happy, reasonably well-fed kid. I snatch up the receipt book, just in case the baker wants one for his unsalable goods, and do a quick check in the rearview mirror. Can’t represent the food bank with something stuck in my teeth. I stare back at my reflection. My grey eyes look clear. My braid is neat. Nothing stuck between my teeth. Since I don’t look like I’ve been hit by the ugly stick, I jump down from the cab, my breath swirling in the crisp, winter air. 

The sound of my hiking boots crunching on the packed snow echoes through the alleyway as I make my way to open the van before banging on the bakery’s back door. I only have to give a few swift knocks before I hear someone snapping open the locks on the other side of the door. The door swings wide and I’m face to face with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, set in one hell of a handsome face topped by wavy blonde hair. That face is the picture of surprise at the moment. I guess the baker was expecting Haymitch.

“I’m from the food bank?”

The eyes blink twice and then he manages to flash me a blinding smile full of straight white teeth. “Oh! Great! I’m Peeta Mellark.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.” I wait for him to open the door to let me in, but instead he steps outside. He’s still in his shirt sleeves, but he doesn’t seem cold. “They’re up in the apartment,” he says, as though that explains something I should already know. He starts climbing a wooden staircase that runs between the bakery door and a second door. He stops about halfway up. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Into your apartment?” I wait for him to figure out why that's not on.

He reddens a bit and rubs his hand over his hair, making it stand up in spots. “I’m not a creep, I swear. I mean, I was expecting a guy. She said Haystack, or something, was coming to pick them up.”

I guess he's got a point, but I'm stubborn. “Not today. Can't you just bring whatever it is down?”

He sort of laughs. “Why don't you just come and see for yourself?”

I can't help it. I’m not exactly a shrinking violet and he's piqued my curiosity as to what this is all about, so I huff and start stomping up the steps behind behind him. He leads the way, which gives me a close up view of his very fine ass, nicely rounded underneath his shapeless white pants. I don't have long to admire the view, however. In less than a minute, we’re standing at the top of the stairs and he's opening the door to the apartment. We step inside and I immediately understand the problem. Every surface of the apartment is covered in brightly wrapped packages topped with shiny bows. Each package also sports an angel-shaped tag, bearing the a child’s first name and their Christmas wish.

Every year, the food bank encourages its clients to make a wish for each of their children on one of those tags and they're hung on a Christmas tree in the mall. Shoppers pick them up off the tree, and then return the gift to the food bank. I can’t say for sure, but by my estimation, this guy has single-handedly fulfilled the wishes of at least 100 kids who wouldn't be getting anything for Christmas otherwise. I should know, I wrote my little sister’s name on those tags every year and then crossed my fingers for the kindness of strangers.

“How many?” I blurt out. The real question is why he did it, but that question seems a little too personal to be asking someone I just met.

“One hundred and forty-two,” he tells me, and if there’s a trace of pride in his voice, I don’t hear it.

I’m not sure why this stop was last on my list. The old cube van is already about half full with my other pick-ups. Mags must have known what I was picking up here. There’s no way she wouldn’t have noticed one person had committed to granting so many angel tree wishes. “I can get about half of them in the van now,” I tell him. “I’ll have to come back for the rest.” 

The guy, I think he said his name was Peeta, nods quickly and sweeps a pile from the table top into his arms. I grab another pile off a nearby couch and we start back down the stairs. He holds the door and I lead the way down the stairs, finally stopping in front of the open van to load in the presents.

I realize then, that in order to load the van properly, one of us is going to have to wait inside the van to stack the gifts while the other brings them downstairs; otherwise, we’ll be climbing in and out of the van all afternoon.

Peeta recognizes the problem at the same moment. He puts down his load of gifts and gives me a bright smile. “I’ll go for the next load, while you pack these. Deal?”

“Sure.” I climb into the van and begin sorting the presents into piles. I decide to use the larger ones to form a base layer and set the small ones off to the side where they won’t get damaged. 

Before long, Peeta returns with another armload. “Here are some more, um-” I can feel the corners of my mouth turning up I as gather the stack into my own arms, but a little wrinkle forms between his brows. “I don’t think I actually got your name.”

“Katniss,” I tell him, going back to playing Tetris with the gifts. I suppose it’s rude not to introduce myself properly. “Katniss Everdeen.”

“Katniss?” He sounds surprised and I tense, waiting for him to react to the unusual name my father chose for me. “Like the plant? Nice.”

I give him a quick look and he’s sporting a little smile with just the right touch of shyness, that makes it impossible to look away. “You know what a Katniss plant is?”

He shrugs. “Sure, I’m a baker. I have a book of all different sorts of plants. I sculpt flowers for wedding cakes all the time.”

I think of the simple blossom on my namesake plant. “Can’t be much call for Katniss cakes.”

His hand rubs against the back of his neck and I wonder if he’s getting cold. He’s still not wearing a coat. “No, but I flip by it all the time on my way to the lilies.” I nod in understanding and his hand falls to his side. “I’ll just, ah, get some more presents.” He shuffles away and I crawl out of the van to make more room. After a couple more loads, it’s as full I as I feel is safe. I slam the van’s rear doors closed.

“I’ll be back,” I tell him, and he’s just goofy enough to reply with a Terminator impression. I can’t help but laugh. “Give me an hour and we’ll get the rest of them loaded up.”

A few minutes later, I’m driving back through the city, once again grinding my way through the gears of this old van and hoping it holds together long enough for me to finish the gift delivery.

Mags meets me in the loading bay of the food bank. She gives me a cheery wave when I jump down from the van. I don’t know how the older woman manages to maintain such a positive attitude when she spends day after day in this place with all she has to deal with.

“You should have warned me about what was at the bakery,” I complain as I open the van doors. 

Mags rolls her eyes and waves me off. She had a stroke last year and while she gets around just fine with the help of a cane, she lost her ability to speak.

“I’m serious, Mags, I would have done things differently had I known.”

The old woman holds up two fingers. 

“I know I would have had to make two trips anyway, that’s not my point.”

Mags crooks her finger at me, indicating I should follow and heads for the doors. Her long grey hair is tied up today and trailing over her back. She stops on the threshold and points at two teenagers lounging against the building, cigarettes smouldering between their fingers, their expensive brand name jackets hanging open. They’re not clients. Mags never says, but we often have this type around the food bank. Working off their court appointed community service, I presume. She snaps her fingers at them and then points at the van. Marvel and Cato, at least I think that’s their names, put out their cigarettes and slouch off to do her bidding.

The warehouse is a hive of activity. Effie Trinket’s shrill voice carries from the back right corner. Effie’s been a food bank volunteer for as long as I’ve been coming here. With brassy gold hair that can’t possibly be real and sporting more makeup than any woman ought to wear, Effie is a force to be reckoned with. She’s managing the angel tree program this year, and from the looks of things, she’s got everything organized to the enth. Mags waves to Effie on her way to her office and gets a cheerful greeting in return. We pass rack after rack of shelving units. The macaroni and cheese section looks particularly loaded down right now. The tables where volunteers pack the hampers that go home with the clients are nearby. On the left, near the front doors, Chaff and Seeder are in the soup kitchen prepping for today’s hot meal, like they do every Saturday.

Mags’ office is in a closet-sized space near the front doors. I think it was where the factory workers used to punch in before heading out onto the floor to work. She snatches a small whiteboard off her desk. 

_ So you met Peeta? _

“Yes, Mags, I met him.”

_ Handsome. _

She can say that again. “Yeah, I guess.”

Mags’ eyes are dancing as she erases her board.  _ My second favourite volunteer _ , she scrawls.

Seriously? If cheerful, kind -- and okay, yes, gorgeous -- Peeta Mellark, with his sky blue eyes and sexy jaw is her second favourite volunteer, who would qualify as her favourite?

“He volunteers here? How come I’ve never seen him around?”

Mags shakes her head and picks up her marker again.  _ He’s here on Thursdays. Soup kitchen. _ She holds the board up so I can read it. When I nod in understanding, she erases it and starts over.  _ Always a long line for his cooking. _

I snort. “Figures.”

Mags chuckles and erases her board again.  _ Lots of women here on Thursdays. _

This conversation is annoying. “Well, I should go see if those two slackers have got the van unloaded. I told your favourite volunteer I’d be right back.”

Mags shakes two fingers in my direction. “Right,” I recall. “Second favourite. Be back soon, Mags.” 

She waves me off. When I come back into the main room, I find Effie practically having an orgasm over Peeta’s wrapping job. 

“Oh Katniss,” she enthuses. “So few people appreciate that it’s the little things that make the difference. A child in need has as much need to be recognized as someone special as anyone else, to know that someone cares enough to make things nice for them. Oh!” She wipes a tear from her eye and holds up a brightly wrapped package topped in a hand-tied scarlet bow. “Look at this! It’s a work of art.”

Clearly, Effie Trinket has no idea what a ‘child in need’ actually needs, but I decide to let it slide since her heart is in the right place. 

“Pretty,” I agree. “Well, I better go get the rest of them.”

“There’s more?” Effie is truly beside herself now. “Oh Katniss, think of the children!”

I shoot Effie a grimace wrapped in a smile, shake the keys to the van at her and head for the back door. The layabouts seem to have found a new hiding spot, at least but the van is empty. I fire it up and head back across town.   

I’ve barely backed up to the bakery and Peeta is throwing open the door, a delighted smile on his face. As I approach, I see that his blue eyes are twinkling.

“You’ve got perfect timing,” he calls as I open the back door of the van. “I’ve just flipped over the closed sign for the day.”

Now that I know this guy has Mags’ seal of approval, I’m more than ready to help him carry the gifts down from the apartment. 

I start for the stairs, but Peeta appears in the bakery doorway, his arms full of gifts. I notice a blue and silver bow and envision Effie’s reaction. I don’t realize I’m scowling until he does a double take and shrugs good-naturedly. “I brought them down already. I thought it would save time.”

I hold out my arms and he passes the load off to me to stow in the van. The process goes much more smoothly with an empty van and we are soon moving swiftly past each other to pack the parcels inside. Well, I’m moving swiftly. Peeta seems to be limping. 

“Hold up,” My hand closes around his rock-hard biceps. Who would have thought a baker would have arms like that? “Are you okay?”

His brow furrows. “Sure. Why?”

I give his leg a pointed look. 

“Oh, he says. “Old injury. It gets aggravated when I overdo it.” He turns his back and shuffles back into the bakery kitchen.

I want to kick myself. Of course that’s why he asked for our van and needed help bringing them down the stairs. Thanks to me, this poor guy has made about 50 trips up and down the stairs today that he didn’t need to make. 

“You should have told me,” I grumble as we sweep the last of the gifts into our arms and head back outside. 

He stops and gives me an odd look as he stands at the van doors. “Crawling on my knees in the van wouldn’t have been any better for it Katniss. And I’m the one who decided to bring the rest down. You didn’t ask me to do that.” 

I put my load down. “Because I balked at going upstairs.”

Peeta stows his pile. “Well, that was a little of it. Mostly, I was hoping to save a little time.”

I’m still frowning when I slam the van doors closed, but Peeta has his hands in his pockets and a slight smile on his lips. His wavy blonde locks have fallen into his eyes and he reminds me of little boy trying to charm himself out of trouble.   

“Have you got a few minutes? I make the best hot chocolate in town.”

I check my watch, but it’s not like I have to hurry back. The food bank will be open for hours yet, and it might be Saturday, but I don’t have any plans this evening. So, I shrug and agree. 

Peeta’s smile transforms into a toothy grin and he leads the way back into the bakery. The kitchen is spotlessly clean. Every stainless steel surface is sparkling and while the ovens are clearly off. The heat in here is a startling difference from being outside for the last half hour. No wonder Peeta was loading gifts in his shirt sleeves. 

He leads the way out into the cheerful storefront and moves toward an espresso machine where he heats the milk. Before long, two piping hot chocolates are steaming away in colourful mugs on the counter. 

“The secret,” he confides, “is in the quality of the chocolate and real whipped cream.” He pulls a little container from the fridge. “Chocolate I grated this morning,” he explains as he sprinkles it on top.  He passes me a mug and waves me toward a couple of cafe tables set up under a colourful painting not far from the cash. Once we’ve settled in, he smiles at me and holds up his mug, “to a job well done.”

With a  _ hear, hear _ , I clink my mug against his. I take a sip of the hot chocolate and don’t quite manage to stifle a groan. “You’re right,” I tell him. “This is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.”

Peeta smiles brightly at me and then chuckles. He leans across the table. “You have a little…” He flicks my nose and holds up his finger. A little blob of whipped cream sits on the pad. He pops it in his mouth and grins. 

I don’t know whether to laugh or scowl, but I feel a blush stealing across my cheeks so choose the latter. 

He laughs. “I can’t help but tease you, Katniss. Your reactions are priceless.”

“And here I was thinking you might be one of the good guys.” 

He puts his mug on the table and watches as it spins it between his fingers. “I try to be. My dad always said being a good man was the most important thing I could do with my life.”

I recognize the tone. “When did you lose him?”

“This past summer,” he sighs and rubs his hands on his thighs before sitting back in his chair. “Cancer.” 

“The first Christmas is rough,” I tell him, sipping my hot chocolate and taking care to wipe my nose. “It’s never easy, but it gets a little less hard every year.”

He leans forward. “Did you lose your dad?”

I nod. “Hunting accident.” It hurts even now to think of what happened, but I’ve had years of practice at disguising my feelings about it. My father was a hunting guide part-time to make extra money for our family. He was leading a group of guys from the Capitol out on a deer hunt. One of the idiots forgot to turn the safety on his gun. He got over-excited, mishandled the weapon and it went off. My dad got shot in the chest and he bled out before they could get him out of the woods. Our family was never the same after that.

“I’m sorry,” Peeta offers, and for once, I know that it isn’t a platitude. He understands exactly what it feels like to lose a parent. 

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’m sorry for your loss too.”

“This whole gift thing was about him,” he confesses. “He was a big supporter of the food bank and the angel tree was really important to him. Each year he would take my older brothers and me to the mall. We each picked an angel off the tree and then Dad would take us shopping to fulfill the wish. He said it was our gift to him.”

“Too bad there weren’t more people like your dad,” I remark. Peeta and I are about the same age. I wonder if he or his brothers ever took Prim’s angel off the tree.

“He was special,” Peeta agrees, and takes a sip of chocolate, watching me over the rim of the mug. “Once I grew up, we stopped buying gifts for each other and just did the angel tree. My brothers live out west and they do the same thing.” I don’t know what to say to that. I volunteer every week at the food bank, but this level of generosity is beyond what we usually see, even there, so I just nod and sip the rich nectar in my hand. “This year, it just seemed so incredibly sad that we wouldn’t do it together, I decided I needed to do something to honour him.”

“Well, you definitely did that. I’m sure he’d be very proud of you.” The words burst from me, and I cringe inside at my unusual burst of sentimentality, but Peeta accepts my words graciously, his cheeks a little pinker than they were minutes before. “Seriously, Peeta, you’ve made a huge donation. I’ve never seen anything like it from a single person.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t pay it all out of pocket. I held a silent auction here in the bakery. Told people what I was doing in memory of Dad. It was just way more successful than I imagined.”

I can just imagine the long list of bids on the auction items. There’s no doubt of my mind that Peeta could charm people into parting with their hard-earned money.  

I raise my mug to my lips only to find it empty and the corners of my mouth turn down in disappointment.

“I guess I should get going,” I sigh as I rise from the table, pushing away the urge to linger.  “Thank you for the hot chocolate.” He waves that off as though it were nothing. “And on behalf of the food bank, thank you for your donation.”

“My pleasure,” he replies, “on both counts.”

He collects the mugs and once we make our way into the kitchen, I head for the delivery door zipping up my jacket and adjusting my scarf. It’s really going to suck to have to climb into that frigid truck after the warmth of bakery.

“Hey Katniss?”

I whip around to find Peeta massaging his neck, a shy smile on his rugged features. “Do you want to, uh, exchange numbers?” I’m so distracted by the butterflies winging around in my chest that I forget to answer. He begins to backpedal. “I mean, don’t feel obligated or anything. But I feel like we made friends today. But I won’t be hurt if you don’t want-”

Friends. Of course he just wants to be friends. Why would a guy like him be interested in me? The butterflies come back to Earth and I pull my phone out of my pocket. “What’s your number?” The smile returns to his face and he rattles it off while I punch it in. I type a quick ‘It’s Katniss’ and press send. 

When his phone chimes a second later, he pulls it from his pocket. “There you are,” he says with a smile and with some quick flicks, adds me to his contacts. “You’ll be sick of me in no time.”


	2. December 19

My cellphone lights up on the desk. “Let me love you. Let me love you,” it sings.

I snatch it up and am about to unlock it when my co-worker, Gale Hawthorne, appears in the doorframe. Gale is the classic tall, dark, handsome man, with gorgeous, rich, dark hair, a strong jaw and a permanent case of five o’clock shadow. His nose has been broken more than once and it’s the only thing that keeps him from being too pretty. Except today. A sneer is pasted on his handsome face. “Never took you for a Belieber, Catnip,” he drawls.

I tap on the phone case with my index finger. “It’s DJ Snake,” I insist. I don’t waste my breath by pointing out how much I hate the nickname. I lost that battle three years ago when I first started working for the forest service and Gale misheard how to pronounce my name.

“Featuring the Biebs!” Gale insists.

I huff and toss my braid over my shoulder. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

Gale’s eyes travel over my shoulder to the paper thin wall that separates our workspaces. “If I have to listen to that asshole five times a day, I’d like know why.”

“It’s a ringtone,” I mutter. “I’ll turn it down if it bothers you.”

But this news doesn’t send Gale on his way like I’d hoped. Instead, he props a shoulder against the door jamb and settles in. “Never known you to give someone a special ringtone before.”

He means him, I know. I never gave him his own ringtone. After all, we’ve been co-workers for a long time. We even dated, briefly. Then again, three predictable dates and one mediocre night between the sheets two years ago does not a ringtone make. At least we both got off. Then we got on with life.

“Never bothered to figure it out before, I guess.” Which is true. It’s also true that I’ve never been particularly interested in who was texting me before now.

“Have you got one for me yet?”

I want to bang my head on the desk. Why won’t he just take the hint and buzz off? “Seeing as you won’t be anywhere near me when it rings, I guess you’ll never know.”

He rolls his eyes and mutters something about how he was just asking and slinks back to his office.

Gale’s right about one thing. Peeta has been texting me a lot since I first met him on Saturday. But I can’t seem to mind it. He’s got a wonderfully snarky sense of humour that never fails to make me laugh. When I unlock my phone and check my messages, I’m greeted by a close-up of Peeta’s face. His bright blue eyes are level with some delicious looking cinnamon buns and he’s looking inquisitively at the camera. He’s only texted one line. _Did I tell you I’ve got hot buns?_

I can’t help it. I snort, then type quickly back, _So I’ve noticed._ I toss the phone back down and return to my report on the effects a select cutting operation in the state park had on the flora and fauna near the site last winter. I’ve been able to identify six different animal tracks since the first snowfall and the softwood saplings that were languishing under the cover of the aging deciduous trees are recovering and growing stronger.

The Biebs starts up again and I swear that I hear Gale cursing through our shared wall. I suppress a snicker and check my messages again.

_Huh. And here I thought that I was the one doing all the noticing._

I don’t have time to tap out another reply because another message comes flying in.

_So I’m thinking I want to make it an even 150. Wanna help me finish my shopping tomorrow night?_

One hundred and fifty gifts for the food bank? This guy can’t be real. Is it wrong that I want him to be? My reply is only one word: _Okay._

_Meet you at Panem Place. 6 o’clock?_

_ Sounds great. _

_ It’s a date! See you there. _

A shiver rushes through me and I yank my sweater off the back of my chair. I wish they’d do something about the heating system in this office.


	3. December 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to you! I promise our babies won't stay like this.

I was unprepared for this madness. The mall, five days before Christmas, is a nut house, crawling with wild-eyed shoppers determined to spend every cent in their pockets. Gigantic Christmas balls dangle from the ceiling between long garlands of flocked greenery. From my perch on a high stool in the food court, I spot Santa on his throne offering half-hearted ho-ho-hos to a squalling child while an unfortunate woman in an elf costume tries to take their picture. Honey, you can shake your stupid monkey at that baby all you want. He isn’t going to smile.

To top it all off, Burl Ives is wishing everyone a Holly, Jolly Christmas. I’m pretty sure that’s impossible in this little slice of suburban hell.

Justin Bieber starts singing in my pocket. I’m still not sure what I was thinking when I assigned that particular ringtone to Peeta, but it doesn’t really matter anyway because I never let it play very long. I unlock my phone and open the message.

_ You’re prettier when you smile. _

My head whips around, eyes scanning the crowd, looking for his familiar mop of hair. Finally, I spot him, leaning against a nearby pillar while sporting a lazy grin, a baseball cap perched on his head. He waggles his fingers at me as I move toward him. 

He looks so different in something other than his bakery uniform. His biceps practically burst from the sleeves of the t-shirt he’s wearing. The pinky-orange fabric clings to his pecs too. I think the colour is called coral or something, but I’ve never seen it on a man before. Whatever. It looks hella good on him. The jeans are perfect for him too. They’re clearly soft and well worn; neither too baggy nor too tight.

A fantasy flies unbidden into my mind of me stepping casually into his arms like I belong there, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his lips. I command my imagination to heel. I barely know this man. 

“Hi,” I force out, but it sounds breathy and girly and nothing like me.

“Hi,” he says with a bright smile and pushes off the post, his winter jacket clutched in his fist. “Did you want to get some dinner?”

I do, but not at the food court, so I just shrug. “Maybe after? Let’s get the shopping done first.”

Before long, we’re walking in circles around the scraggly artificial tree still dripping in paper angels. Rue, a teenaged volunteer from the food bank, is manning the table. Her chocolate eyes are dancing when we approach. She’s Chaff and Seeder’s daughter and I’ve watched her grow up, helping her parents on Saturday afternoons. But, it seems that she knows Peeta too.

“Katniss! Peeta! I didn’t know you knew each other. What are you doing here?”

“Just finishing my Christmas shopping,” Peeta says easily as he peruses the angels on the tree, plucking the odd one off it’s branches.

Rue leans over the table to whisper conspiratorially. “Are you guys dating?” 

I shake my head vehemently and then feel guilty for it. “We’re just friends.”

“He’s kinda cute, Katniss. Do you want to be his girlfriend?” 

I must turn three shades of red because Rue giggles. “We just met Saturday,” I hiss, which only makes it worse. Honestly, she’s as boy crazy as Prim was at her age. I’m still shaking my head at her when Peeta returns to the table so Rue can jot down the requests he’s promising to fulfill.

“All set?” she asks.

He nods. “I think so.”

While Rue and Peeta finish their business, I start checking out the other wishes on the tree, finding dreams of dolls and video games, Lego and science kits, Nerf guns and teddy bears. Then I spot it - an angel hung so that the wish on it is hidden from view. I turn it so I can read it better, the card stock seraphim stiff between my fingers. An eight-year-old girl wants a pair of winter boots. Size 13. My heart pounds in my ears and I have to remind myself to take my next breath. And the next one. When I step away from the tree, I can’t let it go. Instead, I march over to Rue and slap it down on the table. 

“This one,” I tell her and she looks up at me, startled. “I’ll take this one.”

As soon as she’s finished with Peeta’s angels, Rue picks up mine and gets ready to assign it to me in her book. 

“I can get that one, Katniss,” Peeta offers. “Let me put one of these back and-”

“No.” 

Rue hands the angel back to me and I stomp towards the nearest shoe store. There’s a storm raging inside me and I won’t be able to think clearly until I’ve got the boots in my hands.

“Katniss!” Peeta calls out, scurrying to keep up with me. There’s a hitch in his step. His injury must be bothering him again. “Wait up a minute.” I sigh and roll my eyes skyward. His face is twisted in concern when he finally catches up. “Why are you so upset? I thought we were having fun and then you just took off. Did I do something?”

“No.” I try to brush past him and continue my mission to Payless Shoes, but he catches me by my sleeve. 

“Katniss? What’s wrong?”

“Boots, Peeta! Boots!” He stares at me blankly, so I shake the little paper angel in his face. “This little girl -- this eight-year-old girl -- gets one Christmas wish, Peeta. ONE! And she’s so desperate for warm winter boots, that’s what she asked Santa for. Not a doll. Not jewellery. Not even a teddy bear. Boots!” I’m shaking with rage. “Well, I’ll make damn sure she gets her boots.”

By the time I’ve finished my rant, Peeta has grabbed me by the shoulders. I wait for him to walk away. He should walk away. I’m a crazy woman who just lost her mind over a pair of boots. But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls me into his arms and lets me bury my face in his shoulder. My lips are a hair’s breadth from his neck and I inhale the warm, yeasty scent of his bakery. Against my cheek, his shirt is as soft as I thought it would be when I saw him standing by the pillar only minutes ago.

I don’t know what possessed him to hug me, but somehow it was exactly what I needed and I know I will not be the first to let go.

“Okay, Katniss,” he whispers in my ear,` “Let’s go buy that kid some boots.” When I finally raise my head from his shoulder, Peeta threads his fingers through mine and leads me into the shoe store. He says nothing as I inspect the warmth of each pair of boots in the kids’ section before finally landing on a pair exactly like what I would have purchased for Prim when we were kids. They’re bright pink pull-ons, with a thick liner to keep the little girl’s feet warm and a chunky sole that’s perfect for the icy sidewalks in our town. The price point is perfect, so I pay for them and we head out of the store. 

“I think…” says Peeta thoughtfully, swinging our still-joined hands between us, “that it’s time for hot chocolate.”

Calmer now with the bag for from the shoe store clutched in my fist, I ponder his suggestion. “It won’t be as good as yours.”

He chuckles. “Spoiled you for everyone else, have I?”

I can’t hold back the eyeroll. “Something like that.” 

Before long we’re back in the food court, blowing the steam off a couple of grande hot chocolates from Starbucks. It doesn’t even come close to the goodness Peeta served me a few days ago. Nevertheless, it’s soothing. 

Peeta shifts in his chair. The corner of his mouth ticks down and the cords in his throat tighten. When he speaks, his voice is full of concern. “Are you feeling better now?”

Good God. I’ve made him think I’m a mental case. Playing the scene again through his eyes, I can only imagine how crazy I seemed to him. We only met a few days ago. He knows nothing about me, really, and now he’s probably wondering how fast he can shake me. I should just thank him for the hot chocolate and go home; mark this down as the time I had a shot with a really amazing guy and blew it. 

“Katniss?” The gentle prod brings me back to the conversation. “I said, are you feeling better now?”

I nod slowly, tracing the pattern in the Formica tabletop with my free hand. “Yeah, I am, thanks.”

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” No, not really. I could go quite happily through the rest of my life and never mention what my mother put my sister and me through. “I mean, you don’t have to, but sometimes it helps to talk about things.”

“We had a hard time,” I blurt out, deciding it’s rude not to offer him at least some form of explanation. “After my dad died, I mean. My mom- We struggled, for awhile. And we had to use the food bank. A lot.”

Peeta chews his bottom lip. “So that’s why you volunteer.”

I grimace. “I have to pay Mags back. For what she did for us. I owe her my life, really.” 

“I doubt she’d agree.” Peeta jerks his head to the left, toward the tree where Rue is still assigning angels. “Did you ever?”

I nod. “For my sister, Prim.” I wriggle in my chair and clutch my cup in both hands. “Anyway, the idea that a family is so hard up that little girl’s gift from Santa had to be winter boots, well-”

“It brought it all back.” Peeta gives my hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry about that. This was supposed to be fun,” he says, and he looks so crestfallen that I squeeze his hand back and then take a long slurp of my hot chocolate.

“I’m fine, really. It’s just… Everybody has their triggers, you know? Kids not having the necessities? That’s mine.”

Peeta watches me closely over the rim of his cup, his blue eyes searching my face for any further signs of distress. He must see whatever he’s looking for because he nods. “Okay, I’ve got $300 burning a hole in my pocket. Let’s get this done so I can get them wrapped tonight.” He gets up from his chair and offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

The gallant knight routine makes me laugh and I tuck my arm into his. “Lead the way.” 

We spend the next two hours wandering through the toy store. Peeta mounds the cart with Baby Alive and Little People, a Spiderman mask and gloves with real, shooting web spinners, video games and gift cards. He holds up the cans of silly string required for Spiderman’s gloves and chortles, “these too.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I roll my eyes. Peeta takes that as a yes and tosses it into the cart. 

Before long, we’re moving through the checkout and are waddling across the parking lot, weighed down by his purchases. 

“I don’t care what you say, Peeta. Baby Alive is a creepy frigging doll!”

He snickers as he adjusts his packages to dig his keys from his pocket. “It’s just a doll, Katniss, not Chucky.”

“Could be. Any vacant-eyed creature that actually dirties a diaper has got to be possessed.”

The headlights on a black Jeep flash when Peeta presses the unlock button, so we move in that direction. “Okay, maybe Bride of Chucky.” We’re still laughing when he throws up the rear door of the Jeep and we load the parcels in. When the door slams down, we’re left shuffling our feet in the amber glow of the parking lot lights.

“So, um, I better take these home. Get them wrapped.” Like the gifted orator I am, I mutter ‘yeah’ or something equally eloquent. I kick at a rock in the hard-packed snow beneath our feet. I am not ready for this night to be over.

“Hey,” Peeta says suddenly. “I still owe you dinner. Would you like to come over and help me wrap and I’ll make us something to eat?”

It feels like someone has thrown me a life preserver, so I don’t argue. Instead I agree to meet him at his place and pick my way across the parking lot to my rusty red compact. When she was in high school, Prim dubbed it the POS. It was part of the vernacular at our house. Was there gas in the POS? Could she borrow the POS? And most recently, when was I going to replace my POS. I told her I couldn’t afford to get another car until she finished med school. She wasted no time reminding me that she was on a full scholarship and I should stop being so cheap. I almost laughed out loud when she said it. She has no idea how I’ve scrimped and scrounged for her. It's just second nature to me now. Last fall, I filled the worst of the holes in the POS with Bond-o and painted it with a brush. Prim’s going to have a fit when she sees it. Whatever. I still don't have a car payment and there's nothing wrong with being frugal. Anyway, I’ve been assigned a truck by the state for work. The POS just needs to get me to the office and back. And around town, occasionally.

It shudders and shimmies when I turn the key, but it gets me to the bakery safely enough. 

Peeta is already unloading his Jeep when I pull in. He offers me a wave and a bright smile. Before long, we’re in the apartment and he’s in his kitchen throwing together a pot of homemade soup.

I lean on the island of the open concept space as he makes an instant broth from some bouillon, and pulls pre-cooked chicken and fresh veggies from the fridge. Onion, celery and carrots soon form neat piles on his chopping block. My hand gets a swat when it sneaks in to steal his carrot coins. We’re both still laughing as he scrapes it all into the broth along with a handful or two of rice. A couple of sprigs of sage and savory are snipped from pots growing on the kitchen window sill and tossed on top. 

To be honest, years of being poor taught me to make some pretty good soup from almost nothing, but this is a level of skill beyond even me. In less than 20 minutes, a delicious and hearty meal made from fresh ingredients is simmering on the stove, freeing us to wrap the gifts. 

We settle on the rug in the living room surrounded by all of the evening’s purchases and everything we need to wrap them with enough panache to outdo Martha Stewart. It’s overwhelming.

Peeta offers me a bright smile. “So how are you at tying bows?”

My eyes are rolling before I realize it. “I’m the girl who buys a bag of stick-on bows at the dollar store and then can’t be bothered to use them.”

Peeta’s face contorts in mock horror and then he hands me the scissors and tape with orders to wrap. “If you think you can manage it, Katniss.” 

A huff of annoyance passes through my lips as I hack a piece of snowman paper off the roll closest to me. “I can handle it,” I grunt, and snatch up the box for the creepy doll. The sooner she’s gone the happier I’ll be. I start to surround it with snowman paper while Peeta carefully measures out a green ribbon that perfectly matches the scarf around Frosty’s neck. “Effie’s going to weep when you bring these in. I thought she was going to have an orgasm over your bows on Saturday.”

Peeta shudders. “Thanks for putting that in my head. Guess I’ll be having nightmares tonight.”

I pass the gift over and reach for the Little People fire truck. When I go for the snowman paper again, Peeta protests and forks over a roll covered in dancing Santa Clauses. “Each one should be slightly different,” he insists. That seems ridiculous since they’re all going to different homes, but whatever.

It takes him only a minute or two to tie the bow and so he struggles off the floor to check the soup while I get the last pieces of tape secured on the fire truck’s wrappings. His leg must have had enough for the day, which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask.

“So how is it that you know Effie and Rue and her family, but not Haymitch,” I call out, putting the truck aside and reaching for the Xbox game. The paper I pick this time is dotted with reindeer.

Peeta puts his spoon down beside the pot. “Hay _ mitch _ .  _ That’s _ his name,” he groans. “ I don’t know. Maybe he’s like you and only comes in on Saturdays? Soup needs a little more time.” He settles back down beside me and goes back to choosing ribbon. 

He surveys his purchases and smiles.. “These kids are going to be so happy, but there were still so many kids on that tree. I wish I could do more.”

Is he kidding me? “Honestly, Peeta. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” 

His grin fades a bit. “This is making my Christmas, Katniss.”

I know that, of course, and I feel badly for stealing his joy, but I press on. Surely he understands that this is extravagance beyond reason? “I know that, Peeta. You’re doing a beautiful thing. But you’d already spent thousands and today you spent even more. I’m sure the bakery is successful, but you’re a small business person and you give so much already. I just don’t want you to over-extend yourself.”

His face turns to stone. “It’s nothing, Katniss, really.”

“Peeta,” I say in a serious tone as I reach for something else to wrap. “What you’re doing is everything. But the expense! I know you did fundraising for the first gifts, but these-”

“Katniss,” he sighs. “This is no big deal.”

“It is,” I insist.

Peeta snips the ribbon a little harder than necessary. “We’re finished talking about this.”

“Peeta-”

“I mean it, Katniss.” His tone brokers no argument. “This is the only thing getting me through this Christmas. I thought you’d understand that, if anyone would. I won’t let you ruin it for me.” 

My heart drops somewhere around my belly button and I lower my scissors to the floor.  “I guess I’ve overstepped my bounds.” I know my lips form the words, but I’ve never sounded as much like an offended school marm as I do now. “I think I’ll just go home.” I lift myself up off the rug and dust off my legs. “See you around the food bank, Peeta.” I pick up my purse and coat from the couch where I left them.

“Katniss-” Peeta calls as I make my way to the door. He’s struggling to pull himself off the floor.

“Don’t get up, Peeta.” I reply tightly. “It’s fine.”

The door closes behind me and I climb down the apartment steps to the POS. Once inside, I turn the key, crank up the heat and bang my head against the steering wheel. Me and my big mouth. I’ve ruined a chance with one of the good ones. The Biebs starts singing in my purse, but I ignore him.

With “let me love you” ringing in my ears, I pull out of the bakery parking lot and point the POS towards my empty house. My stomach growls and I’m reminded that I didn’t get any supper. No soup for me.

Which makes me the both Grinch and the Soup Nazi.

Merry fucking Christmas.


	4. December 21

I’ve driven the POS down Seam Street so many times that it could probably find the food bank on its own, which is a good thing since my mind is not on my driving. 

I still feel terrible about what happened with Peeta last night. I don’t understand why I was compelled to push so hard about the money he was spending. We haven’t even known each other a week. It wasn’t my place to say anything. It really shouldn’t matter what he does with his money. Maybe Prim’s right. Maybe I am cheap. And bossy. That’s always her other favourite criticism.

Peeta sent me several texts asking me to call him, but I ignored them, deciding instead to wrap up the boots and drown my sorrows in a container of Ben and Jerry’s.

I didn’t get much sleep, turning the situation around and around in my mind until the little hand was pointing a whole lot closer to the time I needed to get up than to the time I laid down. I finally gave up around five. Dawn was breaking when I arrived at work. I was already on my third cup of coffee and hammering away at my report when Gale and our boss, Thom, strolled in just after eight o’clock. By two, I had a completed draft on the printer. I dropped it in Thom’s inbox and told him I was heading out for the day. 

I didn’t really think about what I was doing when I started the car. I just turned it on, pointed it out of the parking lot and now I’m sitting here at the food bank, staring at the long line of people waiting for soup even though there’s still an hour until they open the kitchen doors. Mags was right. There are a lot of women in line for Peeta’s soup. Some of them appear to be single, but a lot of them have children in tow and it’s freezing outside. I wonder if anyone has noticed how many people are out here. 

I snatch up the boots and jump out of the car, moving quickly to the door. A child in a yellow coat watches me, tugging on her mother’s coat and protesting that I am cutting to the front of the line. Her mother is still hushing her when I punch in the security code for the door. I glance back to find the little girl’s blue eyes still watching me accusingly. I give her a wink and slip inside. 

It’s almost a relief to see Mags is at her desk in her tiny office by the door. I wave at her, taking the boots back to Effie’s corner. She’s not around, so I escape back to Mags’ office unnoticed and get a wide smile as my reward when I knock. She reaches for her white board.

_ Not your day. Here to see your new friend? _

“Rue’s been talking, I see.”

Mags’ eyes twinkle as she shrugs and erases her board.

She holds it up again.  _ He asked about you.  _ I don’t know what to say to that. He won’t be asking about me again, I’m sure. Mags watches me carefully and then frowns. 

_ What’s wrong? _

Well, I’m not answering that question. “I came inside to tell you that there’s a long line of people outside, including children. It’s quite cold. I was hoping we could let them in.”

Concern paints Mags’ aged face and she reaches for her cane. She gets to her feet and makes her way around her desk to the front door. She snaps the lock and motions for the line to come inside. The diners waste no time escaping the cold, stomping their feet and blowing on their hands in an effort to warm up. Mags points to the tables and, used to her pantomime, they all understand that they should sit down. Then she gives me an expectant look.

“Hi everyone,” I begin and, somewhere in the back, I hear a man shout, “Can’t hear you, Sweetheart,” so I clear my throat and try again. “Hi everyone. We thought you could all use the chance to warm up. Feel free to wait here until dinner’s ready.”

As I turn my attention back to Mags to make sure I got her message across, a blonde head pokes out of the kitchen door, a shocked expression on its owner’s face. When he catches me looking, he disappears behind the door.

Mags makes a gurgling sound that passes for her laugh and she waves me toward the kitchen. 

“I should make a sign for the door. Tell people it’s alright to come in,” I protest.

She nods, pointing to herself. Then she points to me and the kitchen door. 

Mags might not be able to talk, but she communicates just fine.

The minute I pass through the kitchen door, a savoury aroma tantalizes my appetite, but it’s Peeta who’s lures me in; standing at the stove, still in his bakery uniform, his broad shoulders moving fluidly beneath the thin white t-shirt as he stirs its contents. Nearby, Chaff is putting pats of butter into little bowls and Seeder is filling the salt and pepper shakers. She leaves her post to hug me. 

“Merry Christmas, honey,” she murmurs, her coffee coloured arms wrapping me in an embrace so maternal, I long for simpler times when comfort could be found in my mother’s arms.

“Merry Christmas,” I tell her and squeeze her back, thinking that Rue is a very lucky girl indeed.  “What can I do to help?”

Seeder turns to Peeta, who is steadfastly keeping his back to us. “Peeta,” she calls, “This is your show, Baby. Tell Katniss how she can help.”

Left with no choice, Peeta turns around to where Seeder stands with her arm around my shoulders. His gaze takes us in, but none of his customary warmth can be seen in his eyes. “I brought some bread with me. I was just about to put it on some trays and warm it in the oven. You could get going on that if you wanted, Katniss.”

I hang up my coat and Seeder starts pulling oversize cookie sheets out of a cupboard behind us. She lines them up on the prep table while I fetch the bags of rolls Peeta brought in with him. A knock sounds on the kitchen door. When Seeder pulls it open, a woman stands on the other side, her fingers twisted into knots in front of her. It’s the mother of the little girl in the yellow coat.

“A few of us were talking, and since we’re here already, we’d like to help, if that would be okay,” 

Seeder reaches for the tray of salt and pepper shakers. “My husband and I were just about to set the tables,” she says with a smile. “Y’all can help with that. Chaff, come on, honey.” Seeder pats my arm on the way out the door and moments later, I hear her cooing to one of the children waiting for their dinner. 

I’ve already started placing the hearty, multi-grain rolls on one of the sheets when Peeta joins me with his own bag. We work in silence for a minute or so and then he speaks. 

“So, uh, what are you doing here?”

My rolls are lined up in two rows of six. “I had to deliver those boots I bought,” I say, starting on my third row. 

He nods. “Got them wrapped, did you?”

“Yeah, even found my bows and stuck one on the box.” Peeta snorts beside me. “Anyway, I wanted to get them here as soon as I could. And… I needed to apologize.”

“Just a minute,” says Peeta. “I need to stir my stew and I can’t pay attention to you if I’m worried about it.” He moves swiftly to the stove and lifts the lid. 

A wreath of steam rises from the pot and the air is filled with the thick, rich scent of whatever he’s got cooking. “What’s for dinner?”

“Lamb stew,” he replies, stirring carefully. 

“The real thing?” I ask, my stomach rumbling. “With the plums and the rich gravy?”

He nods and recovers the pot. “And before you ask, yes, I know exactly how much it costs. Mellark’s has been sponsoring the Thursday meal here for years. Mags’ writes me a receipt for everything. So it’s a tax write off.”

It hurts to think about how much I deserved that, but I manage to meet his gaze. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I tell him, returning to placing the buns on the trays. “What I said last night. I don’t know why I was so insistent about it. I mean, it isn’t any of my business, how you spend your money.”

“No,” says Peeta, now standing beside me and putting rolls on his own tray. “It’s not.” 

Man, I suck at this apologizing thing. And he certainly isn’t making it easy. “Anyway, I knew donating the gifts was very important to you. We’ve only just met and I had no business lecturing you. I’m sorry.”

Peeta says nothing for a minute. He just side-eyes me and then picks up both trays, popping them in the commercial oven while I watch him nervously. Once the oven door is closed he turns back to me, dusting his hands on his pants. “I think it would help if I understood why you did it.”

“I don’t know,” I snap, but Peeta just stands there with his hands on his hips, watching me. “I mean, I don’t get it, I guess. Why you’d do something like that.”

His eyebrows draw together and he frowns. “I don’t get you, Katniss,” he says, and crosses his arms. “You don’t understand why I’d want to do something kind? Honour my dad in a way he’d be proud of?”

I close my eyes and when I open them, I try again. “Of course I understand that, but 150 gifts is extreme, Peeta.”

He shakes his head. “Mags told me you’ve volunteered here every Saturday morning since you got your driver’s licence, but you don’t understand why I’d want to give to my community?”

“I have a debt to pay, Peeta,” I huff. “Mags. Saved. Me. And my sister. And my mother, for that matter. That woman at the door, the one who wanted to help? She knows what it means to owe someone, Peeta. So she’s helping in the only way she can right now. Don’t you see?”

“I think I’m starting to,” he replies and turns to stir his stew. “But I’ve never felt there was anything wrong with accepting a little help, Katniss.” He faces me again. “And I wasn’t putting anything in jeopardy. I’d never do anything that would hurt the bakery. All I did was hold a silent auction and invested the proceeds in making someone else’s Christmas better.”

As if. “Peeta, no matter how well loved your dad was, there’s no way you’d make that much money selling off pies and cakes in his memory.”

He chuckles. “Don’t underestimate my cakes, Katniss. But if you must know, I sold a couple of paintings.”

“But you said you held a silent auction,” I protest. 

“I did,” he chuckles. “I auctioned off one of my best paintings.”

That floors me. Along with being a charming, generous businessman, he’s also an artist? 

“Really? Peeta, you sold a painting for a couple of thousand dollars?”

“Four, actually.”

“Four paintings?”

“No, four thousand. It was of a sunset. Apparently, it was pretty good,” he says with a smirk. “Or so people said, anyway. I thought it was all about Dad, but a gallery owner came in a couple of days ago and said he’d seen my sunset painting and wanted to buy another one from me. It was quite a bit smaller and it wasn’t being auctioned. He paid me $300 for it.”

Shame washes over me. “And you bought eight more Christmas gifts with it,” I say quietly.

He nods and checks on the buns, then pulls out the trays. “We’re ready. Are you going to stay to help serve?” When I nod, he smiles and then rolls up the kitchen window. “Soup’s on!” he calls to the crowd on the other side. They cheer and begin to line up. I pass Peeta styrofoam bowls and he ladles out each serving with a smile, encouraging them to take a roll as well. He knows many of their names and asks how they’ve been, how the job hunt is going. They respond in kind, asking about the bakery and how he’s doing without his father this Christmas. 

Peeta knows these people. He knows about their lives and they care about him. It makes me think about my Saturdays packing hampers. Sure, I know the faces who come in each week, but do I know them? Do they know I care about what happens to them? That I understand what they’re going through? Have I taken the time?

I’m still thinking this over when Peeta shoves a box into my hands. “Here. One for each child.” Inside the bakery box are gingerbread men. Each one is painstakingly decorated with gumdrop buttons and chocolate eyes. I move through the tables, allowing each child to pick their favourite. 

The little girl with the yellow coat takes her time before settling on one with pink buttons and lips made of red licorice. She sets him on her tray reverently, touching each button as she contemplates what to eat first. 

“It’s a nice surprise, isn’t it?” I ask her and she nods seriously. Over her head, on the other side of the room, I see Peeta moving through the crowd with a second box of cookies. “Well, sometimes the best gifts are unexpected.”

I pat her shoulder gently and finish my work. By the time my box is empty, Peeta is out of sight. When I push the kitchen door open, minutes later, I find him sitting on a stool against the wall, massaging his leg, just above the knee. “Is it hurting again?”

He looks up at me with tired eyes, a little hazy with pain. “Yeah, Thursdays are long days. I put in my usual day at the bakery and then come here and put in another few hours.”

“Do you take anything for it? I’ve got ibuprofen or something in my purse.”

“Won’t help.”

I frown, disturbed by the idea of him in pain. “Ice? I could get you some ice from the fridge.”

The kitchen door swings open and Seeder sails through, her toned arms full of plastic dining trays. “Peeta baby, I’m glad you’re finally sitting down. You can’t keep doing this all by yourself. Your father would be very unhappy if he knew how much time you were spending on your feet.” She lowers the door to the dishwasher and begins to fill it with trays. 

“I’m not quitting, Seeder. This was too important to Dad.”

She rubs his arm on her way back out the door. “I didn’t say quit, Baby. I said you need some help.” She gives me a look I can’t interpret and then calls over her shoulder, “Katniss, sweetheart, can you please wash the pot and the baking sheets?”

Grateful for something to do, I seize the pot and head for the sink, filling it with soapy water. I roll up my sleeves and set to work scrubbing its insides. 

Peeta heaves a sigh and gets up to help me. I turn around and point a soapy finger at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I should help,” he protests.

“You heard Seeder. You need some help, and that’s what friends do, take care of each other. So relax.” When he settles back on his stool, I go back to scraping a particularly sticky piece of guck on the inside of the pot.

“We’re friends, huh?” 

I rinse the pot, and turn to grab one of the sheets. Peeta is watching me carefully for my answer, drumming his fingers on his knees. “Well, yeah. That’s what you said you wanted, right? To be friends?”

The smile on his face doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Of course I want us to be friends.”

Seeder comes back through with another load of trays. She deftly empties the dishwasher and fills it up again. The clean ones are stacked near the window. Chaff comes through with the little bowls of butter and puts them in the fridge. 

“Peeta,” Seeder asks, “are you sure you won’t have dinner with our family on Christmas Day?”

“You’d be more than welcome,” says Chaff, closing the fridge door. 

Peeta shakes his head. “Naw, that’s alright. I’ll just bring you down. I’ll see you next week.”

Finished with the last tray, I pull the plug on the drain and peel off my rubber gloves. “This has been a lot of fun,” I tell them, “but I’m going to head out.”

“Why don’t you both go home,” Seeder urges. “Chaff and I will finish up.” 

Peeta pushes up off his stool and hobbles to the coat tree behind the kitchen door. He pulls on his coat and passes me mine. We make our way through the emptied dining space and out into the parking lot. I walk beside him as he limps to his Jeep. 

When I turn for the Jeep instead of my own car, he frowns. “I’ll be alright Katniss.”

“Indulge me,” I cajole, wrapping my arm through his.

His irritation turns to amusement. “Why do I get this feeling that you’re super overprotective of your friends?”

I hold the door as he climbs into the Jeep. “The more I like you, the more annoying I become,” I chirp, and lean on the door while he settles behind the wheel. “Are you really planning to spend Christmas alone?”

Peeta shrugs. “Dad’s gone. My brothers are out west, so…”

“What about your mother?”

He shakes his head. “We don’t speak. We haven’t for years.”

“Well, you’re welcome to join us at my place,” I offer.

“No, like I said, I’ll just bring everybody down. I’ll ruin your day.”

“Ruin the most awkward family dinner ever? Please. It’ll just be my sister, who’s great, and my mother, who’s hopeless.”

He chuckles. “Trust me, the bad mother award goes to Miranda Mellark.”

“Oh really? Did she abandon you when you needed her most? Let you starve while she drank the welfare cheque? Only clean up her act when you turned 18 and moved out, taking your little sister with you?”

He bites his lip and stares me down. Then he pulls up his pant leg and I can see the aluminum rod where his leg used to be. “She’s responsible for this,” he replies, and waits for me to recoil.

But I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, he’s still the same sweet, gentle man I met the other day. The only urge I need to suppress is the one to hunt his mother down and shoot her between the eyes, but I don’t voice that to Peeta. “Come to dinner,” I insist instead. “You can help in the kitchen and maybe the turkey won’t be as dry as dust for a change.”

He sighs. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Do that. Text me later and let me know.”

“You’ll nag me until I agree, won’t you?”

I snort. “You’re really starting to get to know me.”

Peeta starts the Jeep and pulls the door closed. I step back from the vehicle, but then the driver’s side window goes down. “I’ll bring an apple pie,” he calls out and a little ember that had all but blown out after last night’s debacle burns once again in my heart. 

I watch him pull away and if my steps are a little lighter on my way to my POS, well, no one needs to know that but me.


	5. December 25

 

I watch the youtube video again. This damn turkey will not defeat me. 

“Katniss….”

“Shhh!” I wave at Prim to shut up. Okay, the oven is warm enough. But how in the hell am I supposed to fill this block of ice with the stuffing? And do I really want to put my hand up there?

“Are you still frigging with that turkey?” whines my baby sister. “I don’t understand why we just can’t have warmed up KFC the way we always do.”

“Because,” I say in a tone that makes it clear that further explanation is not forthcoming. It used to work when she was five. Now I just get an impatient stare that makes me sigh. I glare back at her, refusing to budge.

“But I like KFC for Christmas,” she complains. She might be 19, but she hasn’t grown out of being a first class pain in my ass. 

“We weren’t being nearly as ironic and anti-establishment as we thought,” I inform her, not mentioning that there’s a family size bucket in the back of the fridge in case I fail at this; which seems fairly likely at the moment, to be honest. “Apparently KFC for Christmas is a thing in Japan.” 

Maybe I should have taken this damn bird out of the freezer before this morning. 

“This is about that guy, isn’t it? The one you invited? Peter?”

“Peeta,” I correct her absently, wondering if I can stuff the turkey in the microwave and defrost it. 

“You like him,” says my sister. 

“Sure. He’s great.” Realizing it won’t fit in the microwave, I wrestle the turkey into the pan and contemplate sticking my hair dryer up its butt.

“No, no, no. I mean you  _ like _ him.”

“Prim!”

She cackles at my red face, and makes smoochy fish lips. “You wanna hold him. Squeeze him and lo-ove him,” she sings.

“Primrose Everdeen! Act your age! If I wasn’t covered in salmonella, I’d strangle you right now.”

“Katniss is in love! Finally!” shouts my sister.

“Second thought, come on over here and let me give you food poisoning.”   
Over Prim’s shoulder, my mother appears in the doorway. She seems tired, but she works the night shift at a hospital and she always looks that way. Years of alcoholism makes her look older than her years. Still, there’s a smile playing on her lips. “Prim, stop teasing your sister. Elf is on TV, go watch that or something.”

Prim lays a smacking kiss on my cheek. “If he likes you at all, he’ll forgive that you absolutely cannot cook,” she counsels, then she saunters into the living room of our apartment.

Mom watches me from her spot in the doorframe. “I could help you with that, if you wanted.”

“I’ve got it.” I drum my fingers on the counter, still considering my options. I don’t really want to do that to my hairdryer.

Mom moves into the kitchen, approaching me like I’m a feral animal. “Katniss, why are you going to all this trouble for this man?” 

“He lost his dad last summer and he’s all alone for Christmas. I just wanted to do something nice.”

Mom nods. She reaches around me and turns on the warm water. “I used to make turkey dinner. You know, before. Do you remember?”

I do remember. I also remember the many Christmases when she was too drunk to cook but it didn’t matter because there was no food in the house anyway. Not to mention the ones that followed once I figured out that a bucket of chicken, a couple of microwaved potatoes and a can of corn niblets were way easier and far cheaper for a couple of kids to manage. 

She puts her hands on the turkey and carefully lifts it into the sink. “It will never cook this way,” she explains and begins to run water down its neck. “But if we can get the ice out of it and cook it nice and hot, we might have turkey today. Turn up the heat on the stove.”

I’m so desperate for help that for the first time in about 10 years, I actually do what my mother says. I chop onion and fetch herbs and watch as she slowly dislodges the ice block from inside the turkey. Before long, it’s in the oven. Mom eyes the clock. “If all goes well, dinner should be ready by six.” 

I nod. For the last 20 minutes my mother and I have been interacting in a completely normal way. I don’t quite know what to make of it or what to say, but she’s used to that. She just asks me if I planned on making stuffing.

“I bought a box mix. Seemed easy enough,” I tell her and she nods, turning to wash her hands. 

“Okay then. We’ve got a few hours to relax until we need to do anything else.” She waits until I’ve replaced her at the sink, scrubbing up to my elbows, before she speaks again. “You know, Katniss, I’m really looking forward to meeting this friend of yours. He must be something special for you to go through all of this for him.”

Wisely, she doesn’t wait for me to answer. She just pats my shoulder and returns to the other room. I don’t know what to do with myself. Go into the living room and subject myself to more of Prim’s teasing and whatever it was that I just received from my mother? I snatch up my phone and text Peeta instead. 

_ You’re still coming, right? If you leave me alone with my family, I may get arrested for murder. _

Seconds later, my phone begs me to let it love me. But when I turn it over in my hand, Peeta hasn’t texted me back. He’s actually calling. I answer with a tentative hello.

“Should I be worried? Find you a lawyer just in case?”

I can hear him smiling into the phone. “No,” I say with a snort. “But they’re very curious about you. If you can withstand the interrogation, you’ll be fine.”

“They won’t get anything but my name, rank and serial number, commander.”

I have to laugh at that. “Very good, soldier. What’s your ETA?”

“Um-” He pauses and for the first time I realize someone is rattling dishes in the background. 

“Are you working today?”

“Chaff and I rented a coffee truck and we’re parked outside the men’s shelter downtown,” he explains, and I’m once again astonished by the generosity that is Peeta Mellark. “We should be, what? Another hour, Chaff?”

In the background, I hear Chaff call out, “‘Bout that, I’d say.” 

“Yeah, so, I need to run home and get cleaned up, grab the pie. I should be to your place by three or so, if that works for you.”

Two more hours with my nerves, my newly annoying sister and my mother. “That works,” I tell him, and repeat the address. He tells me he’s looking forward to it and it actually sounds sincere.  

“Me too. See you then.” 

When I wander into the living room, Buddy the Elf is pouring maple syrup all over his spaghetti. Prim is splitting a gut laughing and even Mom is chuckling softly. She passes me the popcorn bowl and we watch the rest of the movie in peace.

When Peeta arrives halfway through the Nightmare Before Christmas, the apartment smells divine. I might get a turkey every Christmas just so I can enjoy the delicious smell of it. I’m going to be famished by the time dinner is ready.

When I open the door, Peeta is loaded down with bags.

“Um,” he grins sheepishly. “I might have brought more than pie.”

“Get in here you goof,” I scold and pull him inside, taking his bags into the kitchen while he takes off his coat. I’m already peering inside curiously when he joins me at the counter. There’s two kinds of pie - apple and pumpkin, a pint of ice cream, a covered casserole dish and, surprisingly, a gift. “Ooo, what’s this?”

“That’s for later,” he says, snatching the present away. “We should put the ice cream in the freezer.” I grab it and head for the refrigerator.

“You didn’t need to bring all this, Peeta.”

“The polite thing to say is, “How thoughtful, Peeta. Thank you,”” he scolds. I parrot his words back to him and he laughs. “I couldn’t decide which pie to bring and I had both, plus ice cream.  You can’t have pie without ice cream. And it’s not Christmas for me without Grandma Mellark’s candied yams, so that’s what’s in the casserole. They just need to be warmed up before dinner.”

“Katniss,” yells Prim from the other room. “Are we going to meet this guy or what?”

“Prim!” scolds my mother. 

I roll my eyes at Peeta, but drag him into the living room anyway. From her spot on the couch, Prim shoots an impish grin at me, but greets Peeta kindly. When I introduce Peeta to my mother, he turns on the charm and before long, the two of them are peeling potatoes at the kitchen counter while she giggles at his jokes. I’m left to snap green beans and decide whether I like this particular development. If he’s trying to impress her, that could be a sign that he’s hoping for more than friendship. Then again, my feelings about her and what she did are so convoluted that I don’t know whether I want anyone who cares about me to take her seriously or not. Ugh. Sometimes I even make myself crazy. I decide to stop thinking and focus on snapping the beans: top, tail, snap, snap, snap. The mind-numbing rhythm is soothing somehow.

When all the pots in the house are assigned a burner on the stove, my mother insists Peeta and I take a walk.

“I’ve got this,” she insists, all but bundling us into our coats. “All of the hard work is done until the turkey is ready. Go! Get some air.”

Left with little choice, we head out the door, although Peeta stops to snag the gift he brought with him. It’s flat and light, and he’s able to tuck it under his arm. Once out on the sidewalk, he laces our fingers together and we start to walk down the street. 

He compliments the apartment and I thank him, unable to remove a certain amount of pride from my voice. As soon as I got my job with the Forest Service, I moved Prim and me out of our dumpy place on the wrong side of the tracks and into the clean little two bedroom in the security building where we live now. Every furnishing has been purchased with care and attention. 

Then he compliments my family. “Your sister is lovely, like you said. And your mother is fine.”

I make a snort of derision. “That’s because she’s sober. She cleaned up her act a few years ago, but she was a walking disaster for a really long time. She’s on her best behaviour today.”

“She’s proud of you, I can tell,” he insists.

“Maybe.” I don’t sound convinced, even to myself. We walk on for awhile and the crisp December air starts to burn in my lungs and sharpen my senses. Peeta is being uncharacteristically quiet. “You’ve never said much about your mother, other than what you told me the other day.”

“I don’t like to talk about her, remember her,” he confesses. “She was angry. Disturbed, I guess. In court, her lawyer claimed my grandparents abused her and she was just repeating what she was taught. I was her favourite target.”

I let go of Peeta’s hand long enough to thread mine through his elbow and lean on his shoulder as we stroll along, looking for all the world like a loving couple without a care in the world. “What happened?”

“A lot of things, pinches and pokes and accidental burns, mostly where my father couldn’t see. When he wasn’t home, she’d slap all three of us around for minor things. One day she pushed me so hard I fell into the stove and burned my leg really badly. She just put a band-aid on it and told me to put on a new pair of pants. It wasn’t very long before the infection set in.”

“She didn’t take you to the doctor.”

He shook his head. “How would she explain it? She just kept treating it with ointments and telling me to stop being a baby. Feeding me Tylenol. One day, I collapsed. Dad called the ambulance. I was rushed into surgery. My brothers told the truth. The rest is history.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him and hope he hears in those simple words that I understand the betrayal he has suffered at the hands of his mother. Not all of it, of course. But I too have a mother who let me down in one of the worst ways possible.  It’s no wonder he’s grieving the death of his remaining parent as much as he is.

When we approach a park bench, Peeta suggests we sit down. We settle down, the cold leaching through my jeans to the backs of my legs. Peeta lifts the gift from his lap. “Katniss, thank you for everything the last couple of weeks. I got you something. Well, I made it, really. Here.”

The parcel is wrapped in shiny green paper and tied up in one of Peeta’s trademark bows. This one is bright orange. I manage to finagle it off the package without untying it and shove it in my pocket so I can keep it. The green paper slides off in only a couple of tugs and then I am looking back at myself, Or, at least it would be me, if the woman in the picture wasn’t so pretty. She’s staring out at me; her smile uncertain, her silver grey eyes luminous beneath the black beanie. It’s as though she’s stepping out of a mist that matches her eyes. Perhaps this is how I looked, emerging from the cold the day we met? 

Somewhere along the line my fingers have found their way to my lips. I move them away long enough to thank him. “But I don’t have anything for you.”

He chuckles softly and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? The last two weeks? They’ve been a complete gift to me. I took those angels off the tree to make someone else’s Christmas better. They did that and so much more, Katniss. It felt so good to do something that would have made my father proud. But more than that, Katniss, they also brought me you.” He clears his throat and his eyes search my face. “I was hoping you might feel the same way.”

My gaze falls to the painting. How could I, surly and bossy as I am, ever be considered anyone’s gift? Then again, Peeta’s presence has changed my life and faced with his confession, I can’t continue to hide from the feelings he evokes in me. 

When I look back at him, he’s a picture of anxiety. “Listen, if you just want to be friends, Katniss. I’ll understand. I can always use a good friend.”

“I don’t want to be friends,” I say, and when his face falls, I hasten to explain. “I mean, I do, but that’s not all.” Before he has time to react, I set the painting aside, lean forward and press his lips to mine. He inhales sharply in shock and then quickly recovers, wrapping me in his arms as tightly as our heavy jackets will allow. My hands find his hair as his lips press against mine, gently insistent and providing a taste of the heat that simmers beneath the surface of Peeta Mellark. Everything inside me leaps to attention, demanding more. A tingling begins in my belly, spreading slowly outward as our kiss becomes more heated. My hands slide from his hair until they cup his face before I finally back away. His blue eyes shine with happiness when they open. 

“Merry Christmas, Peeta.”

“Merry Christmas, Katniss.”


End file.
